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Charles  Phillips, 

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BACK  HOME 


BY 

CHARLES  PHILLIPS 


Far  off   thou   art,   yet  ever  nigh: 
I  have  thee  still  and  I  rejoice: 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice: 

I  cannot  lose  thee  tho'  I  die! 

— Tennyson. 


SAN    FRANCISCO 
THE  JAMES  H.  BARRY  COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright  1911 

By   CHARLES    PHILLIPS 

[Third  Edition] 


IPs 


DEDICATION 

TO    ALU    WHO     LOVE,    AND    LOVING 
U  N  DERSTAN  D 


255379 


'WHERE    MOTHER    IS,    IS    BEST." 


Sure  as   the  winged   arrow   shoots, 
Straight  as  the  crow  flies  west, 

Unerring  as  the  eagle  sweeps 
The  heavens  to  his  nest, 

My  heart  sends  all  its  wishings  home— 
"Where  Mother  is,   is  best." 

When   Fortune  smiles   in  this  fair  land, 

And  all  the  world  is  dressed 
In  sunny  garb,  and  all  the  skies 

Smile  at  my  soul's  glad  zest, 
Oh,  then  would  I  go  singing  home — 

"Where  Mother  is,  is  best." 

And  when  the  gloom  and  shadows  come, 

And,  faltering  in  the  test, 
I  fail,  and  fain  would  lean  upon 

Some  heart  for  strength   and  rest, 
Ah,    then  my  heart  turns  wearily, 

"Where  Mother  is,   is   best." 

Where  Mother  is,   there  Heaven  is, 
There  all  the  charms  possessed 

Of  peace  and  joy  and  dear  content 
Await  at  love's  behest — 

Where  mother  is  my  heart  would  stay— 
"Where  Mother  is,  is  best." 

Yes,   I  would   bring  my  burdens   home, 

And  lay  my  head  at  rest 
In   her   dear  lap;   or  singing  bring 

The  fairest  fortunes  guessed 
In  our  long  dreams,  to  make  her  glad! 

"Where  Mother  is,  is  best!" 

God  keep  her  safe  among  those  scenes 

Of  home  so  dear,  so  blest! 
O,    long   as   love   and  mem'ry  live, 

And  long  as  Faith's  confessed, 
My  heart  will  cry  to  all  the  world, 

"Where   Mother  is,   is  best." 


PART   I 


Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest, 
Home-keeping  hearts   are   happiest. 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest: 
To  stay  at  home  is  best! 

—Longfellow. 


BACK  HOME 


NO,    I    do    not    forget.      For   all    my 
days 
Are    thronged    with    thoughts    of 
you,  my  evening  hours 
Are  filled  with   recollections.     Day  and 

night 
My    comings    and    my    goings    all    are 

sweetened 
And    pleasant    made    with    memories    of 

you. 

Now  even  as  I  write  to  bring  you  near 
With  chronicles   of  old  home   days,  my 

heart 
Is    sudden    clamorous   made    with    many 

thoughts 
As    if,    with    yearning's    eager,    hurried 

hand 
I   threw  the  door   of  all   the   past  wide 

open 
And  started  all  the  trembling  wings  of 

memory 
To    rushing    flight    and    swift    returning 

welcome. 
Ah,    well    they    know    me,    these    dear 

doves  of  memory, 
And    clamorous    they    beat    their    wings 

around  me, 

Till,  in  the  soft  onrushing  music  made 
By  the  attentive  flutter  of  their  wings, 


12  BACK  HOME 

I  hear  a  strain  of  sweet  familiar  voices; 

Till,  in  the  cloudy  hypnos  of  their  wing- 
ing, 

Mine  eyes  see  visions  of  old  scenes  I 
love. 

If  the   drowsed   solace   of  the  dreaming 

pipe 
Were     mine,     how     languorously     now 

might  I 
Lean    back    upon    the    soft    surcease    it 

brings 
And  give  the  curling  smoke  free  will  to 

weave 

Its  visionary  pictures!     But  the  sound 
Of  memory's  persistent  wings  is  none 
The  less  inviting,  tho'  I  sit  alone 
In  smokeless  solitude.     Nay,  but  I  sit 
Apart  from  all  the  life  about  me,  living 
A  part  in  other  days.     No  little  thing 
Here   in   this   room,   so   far   from   home, 

but  speaks 

Of  home  and  you.     Father,  I  never  hear 
The  sound   of  building  and  of  saw  and 

hammer, 

But  am  reminded  of  the  days  you  built, 
And  we,  your  boys,  were  early  let  from 

school 
To    bring    your    dinner    pail.      I    wonder 

now 

How  often  we  took  furtive  "peeks"  be 
neath 
The  cover  of  that  pail  to  see  if  doughnuts 


BACK  HOME  13 

Were   tempting  there,    in   brown,    sweet, 

odorous  richness? 
Even  the  table  that  I  write  upon 
Speaks  of  the  little  home-made  desk  of 

pine 

You  made  for  us — that  wondrous  treas 
ury 

Of  slates,  and  pencils,  and  geographies, 
And,  in  the  later  years,  repository 
Of    "Poultry    Heralds"    and     the    "Bee 

Journal," 

And  neatly  stored-up  housewife's  handy 
things. 

Ah,  but  I  love  that  little  old  pine  desk, 
And  many  a  time  my  heart  goes  longing 

back 
To    the    dark    evenings    when    my    little 

lamp — 

The  smallest  lamp  of  all,  the  only  one 
That    had    a    pedestal — showed    me    the 

way 

Thro'  Arden  forest  and  Verona's  streets, 
And  lit  the  page  of  Lear's  wild  stormy 

story. 

For  it  was  at  that  desk  I,  elbows  crook'd, 
And  eager-eyed,  and  on  the  chair's  sharp 

edge, 
First    learned    the    lore    of   Shakespeare. 

Ah,  what  worlds 
Of  wonder  Avon's   bard  has   shown  me 

since 


14  BACK  HOME 

Those  days  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb! 

What  desks 

Of  night-hour  study  and  of  swift  day  toil 
I've  delved  and  scribbled  at  since  those 

first  hours 
Out    in     the     kitchen.       Then     I     never 

stirred 
Till  from  the  living  room  the  call,  thrice 

given, 
Came   for  the   evening  prayer.     And   if, 

sometimes, 
I   told   my  Rosary  beads  with  thoughts 

far  off 

In  English  lanes  or  on  the  bright  Rialto, 
'Twas  but  a  child's  rejoicing  in  discovery 
Of  fairy  worlds  that  he  prayed  Heaven 

to  open. 

Softly!  I  hear  them  now — those  evening 

prayers, 
And  the  swift  sounds  of  memory's  wings 

become 

The  mingled  voices  of  the  Rosary. 
First,  mother's,   low  and   even — and  the 

prayers 

From  her  dear  lips  sound  now  the  sweet 
est  music 
My   ears  will  ever   hear; — then   father's, 

low, 
And  in    his   voice   something  of  solemn 

chant. 

So  one  by  one,  with  lowly  reverence 
The    sacred    mysteries    were    told — and 

proudly, 


BACK  HOME  15 

If  I  so  hap  was  chosen  to  repeat 

Some  of  the  prayers.  Ah,  vesper  voices, 
calling 

Forever  to  me  from  the  deathless  past, 

I  hear  you  and  I  heed  your  treasured 
message! 

Voices  of  by-gone  days,  where  sound  ye 
now? 

One  is  uplifted  in  the  Eternal  Chorus; 

One,  of  that  Mary  named  for  her  whom, 
suppliant, 

We  begged  sweet  intercession,  still  is 
breathing 

Prayers  for  us  all,  tho'  foreign  bound 
aries  sunder; 

One,  of  the  little  sister,  lifts  to-night 

A  pleading  prayer,  upon  the  western 
plain; 

One  is  to-night  with  yours  again  com 
mingled 

In  evening  prayer.  And  one— ah!  since 
I  know 

No  blessing  breathes  there  that  I  do  not 
share  in, 

With  all  the  joy  that  being  remembered 
brings, 

And    all    the    sorrow    separation    makes, 

One  voice,  I  cry  to  you  across  the  moun 
tains, 

Is  lifted  up  in  prayer  and  blessing  on 
you, 

In  praise  to  God  for  all  the  gifts  He's 
given; 


16  BACK  HOME 

And  chiefest  of  those  gifts  the  un 
measured  bounty 

Of  your  dear  love  and  care  and  constant 
blessing! 

No,  I  do  not  forget! 

You  live  and  move  in  all  my  work  and 

pleasure, 
And    would    that    words    could    measure 

half  the  motive 
Of  good  you  daily  give  me.    Think  you, 

father, 
That   the   long,   weary  days   of  toil   and 

labor, 
Of  sweat  in  sun-hot  fields,  of  cold  and 

hardship 
In  winter  days,  were  lost?    And  you,  my 

mother! 
In    one    the    truest    wife,    the    dearest 

mother 
A    home    has    ever   hidden!      Think   you 

ever 
The  burdens  you  have  borne,  the  cares 

you've    carried, 
The    sorrows  you   have   hidden   in   your 

heart, — 
Think   you   these   all,   my   mother,   have 

been  only 
The  weight  of  crosses?    Nay!  if  on  your 

soul 
They  have  perforce  weighed  down,  upon 

your  children 

They  sit  as  crowns,  with  all  the  signal 
uplift 


BACK  HOME  17 

Of    coronals!      And    in    our    hearts    we 

carry 
The    greatest    heritage    that    man    may 

claim — 
Sonship     to    a    great    mother,    a     good 

father! 

No,  I  do  not  forget!  There  in  that  valley 

Named  for  the  Holy  Cross,  I  see  in 
vision 

The  little  church  you  built,  first  monu 
ment 

To  rise  upon  the  plain  in  verity 

To  prove  the  Risen  Christ!  Now  two- 
score  years 

Have  put  their  marks  of  wind  and 
weather  on  it, 

But  still  it  stands,  those  hand-hewn  tim 
bers  firm 

Upon  their  base,  those  joists  so  staunchly 
joined 

That  age  and  usage  cannot  shake  their 
setting; 

Still  from  that  cross-tipped  spire  the  little 
bell 

Rings  out  its  summons  thro'  the  parish 
bounds, 

To  gather  in  the  sons  and  children's 
children 

Of  that  far  day  when  your  strong  voice 
commanded, 

And  your  still  stronger  arm  lifted  and 
guided 


18  BACK  HOME 

The  last  great  beam  of  that  first  prairie 
chapel. 

And  in  they  troop;  and  if,  among  them 
now, 

Few  there  may  be  who  keep  you  in  re 
membrance — 

None  but  that  dear  and  only  sister  left, 

And  that  one  brother  who  remains  to 
day, 

(And,  in  the  choir  loft,  those  who  know 
your  worth, 

And  mingle  thoughts  of  you  in  chant 
and  hymnal) — 

Still  there  is  one,  one  unforgetting 
Friend, 

One  Comrade  of  those  early  days  whom 
time 

Can  never  change,  whose  loyalty  is 
deathless, 

Whose  love  is  Life  itself,  whose  com 
radeship 

Has  been  your  constant  help — aye,  there 
is  One 

Who  never  will  forget.  There  on  the 
altar, 

There  in  that  tabernacle  that  your  hands 

Built  of  the  insensate,  now  all  sacred, 
wood, 

He  is,  in  plenteous  grace.  Your  hands, 
my  father, 

Built  Him  this  roof;  and  He  will  still 
remember 


BACK  HOME  19 

There    was    a    time    when    doors    were 

closed    against    Him, 
"No     room    within!"      Your     skill,     my 

father,  fashioned 

This  shelter  and  this  little   sanctuary, 
And  He  will  not  forget  that  time  there 

was 
When   He  had  not  whereon  to  lay  His 

Head. 

0  little  church,  on  the  Wisconsin  prairie, 
Where  the  rich  valley  of  the  Holy  Cross 
Pays  tribute  to  the  fruitful  sun,  you  call 

me 

Many   a   time   when    thro'   the    hurrying 
city 

1  hasten  on  my  way  and  hear  bells  ring 

ing— 

You  call  me  to  your  humble  sanctuary; 
And  many  a   time,   tho'  plain  and   peak 

may  sunder, 
I     kneel     within     your    hallowed     quiet. 

There 

I  entered  first  the  portals  of  the  chosen, 
When     sacramental     waters,     given     in 

baptism, 

Regenerated  me.     There  first  I  heard 
The  sweetly  solemn  music  of  the  organ 
And  listened  to  uplifted  voices  singing. 
I    see    you    now,    O    little    church,    well 

named 
After   that   saint   upon    whose   feast   my 

father 


20  BACK  HOME 

First   saw  the  light!     St.   Patrick,   great 

Apostle 
Of  Christ's  unfailing  Faith!   Behold  the 

tribute, 
My  father,  in  his  strong  prime,  paid  his 

patron; 
True  sign  he  loved  and  honored  that  fair 

name 
His   natal   day  bestowed    him.      You,    O 

saint 

Of   Tara's    Hill,    whom    Erin's    sons    re 
member 
With    love   and   praise — you   brought   to 

Druid   Ireland 
The  light  of  Truth,  the  bounty  of  God's 

presence. 

Behold!  one  son  bearing  your  noble  name 
Gave  of  his  best,  his  all,  to  lift  the  same 
Tri-signet  cross  above  the  prairie  pines, 
Thus  bearing  on  the  undying  fire  you 

lighted 
On     Tara's     summit    and     all     Ireland's 

hills;— 
So  praising  God  through  you,  his  great 

Apostle! 

Pray  for  my  father,  O  St.  Patrick!     Bles 
sings 
Ask  the  good  Christ  for  him  with  every 

stroke 
Of    that    far    prairie    bell.      Fill    all    the 

heavens 
With  prayers  and  blessings  for  him,   O 

good  people, 
Kneeling   to    God    beneath    the    roof   he 

builded! 


BACK  HOME  21 

Mass  over,  surely  you  remember,  folks, 
How  the  wide  church-yard  thronged  with 

people!  Sunday 
Was   a   long-  week's   event  in   those   old 

days; 
Then  neighbors  met  for  friendly  chat  and 

gossip, 
Stored  up,  since  last  the  whirring  wheels 

of  buggies 
And    Sunday    rigs    and    democrats    and 

buckboards 
Broke  rudely,  with  swift  clouds  of  dust, 

upon 
The    housewife's    gossip,    or    new    jelly 

recipe, 

Or    youths'    and    maidens'    all    self-con 
scious  silence, 
Or    farmers'    talk    of    crops    and    cattle 

sales: — 
O,  all  the  world  was  centred  there,  and 

sorrow 
Was    given    sweet    surcease    in    friendly 

words, 
The  Sunday  guest  was  greeted  and  made 

known 

To  cousins  and  relations  (by  the  dozen), 
The    price    of    wheat    was    argued,    and 

potatoes 
Were  championed  as  next  year's  banner 

crop. 
The    widow's    tears    sprung    fresh    upon 

the  sight 
Of  stalwart  men  who  but  a  week  before 


22  BACK  HOME 

Had    borne    her    life-companion    to    the 

grave ; 
And  by  her  smiled  the  new-made  mother, 

proud 
To     show    her     hushling    baby    to    the 

women, 
While  sage  advice  was  poured  into  her 

ears, 
And  questions  asked  and  answered  with 

that  wisdom 

The  heritage  of  mothers  since  first  Eve 
Nursed  Adam's  sons.     Life,  pulsant  and 

refulgent, 
Hummed    in    the    churchyard,    while    the 

roses   bloomed 

And   filled   the  paths   with   all  the   sum 
mer  splendor 
Of  sunny  June. 

And  then  all  warningless 
A    wind    came    stirring    from    the    grove 

of  oaks 

And  blew  the  bending  roses  till  the  grass 
Was    strewn    with    flowery    snow.      And 

so  our  eyes 

Follow  the  warning  finger  of  the  wind 
And  seek  the  grave-yard's  grassy  slopes, 

where  sleep 

Those  who  await  us,  yet  whose  memory 
Remains  as  living  as  the  verdant  sod 
That  marks  their  corporal  resting  place. 

Beneath 
This  slender  marble  shaft,  all  mellowed 


SACK  HOME  23 

And  stained  with  age,  the  dust  of  loved 
ones  lies, 

A  father's  mother,  whom  I  never  saw; 

A    brother   and   two    little    baby   sisters. 

How  often  have  I  knelt  beside  that  plot 

And  prayed  for  them,  the  while  my  won 
dering  fancy 

Strove  to  make  pictures  of  the  might- 
have-been. 

These  were  the  first  graves  I  had  known. 
Yet  death 

Spoke  never  from  them  in  its  bitterness, 

For  rest  and  hushed  repose,  among  the 
roses, 

Or  underneath  the  quiet  of  the  snows, 

Breathed  round  about.  Ah!  graves  have 
opened  since 

To  dull  my  heart  and  darken  all  my 
vision; 

Yet  now,  with  some  of  life's  long  lessons 
learned, 

Those  first  graves  ever  seem  to  bring 
the  truer 

And  holier  message.  Rather  this — the 
thought 

Of  them  has  helped  me  grasp  the  heavy 
meaning 

Of  graves  that  hold  hearts  of  my  actual 
knowledge. 

No  grave  was  ever  opened  to  receive 

The  silent  dead  that  did  not,  too,  enclose 

Some  of  the  very  heart-core  of  the  living. 


24  BACK  HOME 

So  runs  the  tale!  Death  in  the  midst 
of  life! 

The  living  crowd  all  busy  with  its  talk 
ing, 

Laughs  in  reply  beside  the  sleeping 
throng; 

But  even  rarest  gossip  has  an  end, 

And  tired  young  mothers  must  haste 
home  again, 

And  farmers  to  their  stock,  and  lovers 
hurry 

To  keep  their  tryst — and  widows,  heavy 
hearted, 

Must  turn  their  weary  feet  once  more 
to  hearths 

That  coldly  wait:  "Up,  Dick!  Whoa, 
Jenny!"— "Hurry!" 

The  road  resounds  with  voice  and  whirr 
of  wheels, 

And   all    the   world   is   for   a   little   while 

A  dust  cloud!  Down  we  go,  with  call 
ing  voices, 

Along  the  rattling  road,  and  leave  be 
hind 

The  church  and  churchyard,  soon — how 
well  I  know  it — 

To   brood  in   strange   and   solitary   quiet 

Through  all  the  long,  bright  Sunday, 
and  the  days 

Of  plow,   or  harvest,   till   the   bell  again 

Summons  the  prairie  people  to  the  altar. 

Yet,  One  remains;  and,  in  the  wondrous 
quiet 


BACK  HOME  25 

That  broods  about,  that  little  church  and 

churchyard 

Seem  suddenly  the  land  of  heart's  desire, 
The    domain    of    the    disenthralled,    the 

gateway 
Of  wide  eternity  itself. 

But  down  the  road 

The    spokes    spin    and    the    hoofs    make 
merry   clatter. 

I   know  the   old   road  well.     To-day  re 
turning, 

I'd    look    for    Padden's    store    and    once 
again 

Know  the  good  smacking  taste  of  ginger 
snaps: 

For  many  a  time  you  bought  us  ginger- 
snaps 

On   the   way   home  from   Mass.     That   I 
remember, 

And    the    white    cottage    hidden    in    the 
bushes 

Between  the   "Corners"  and  the   church. 
And    now 

I  vaguely  see  the  old  bent  bearded  man 

Who    greeted    us    from    out    the    cottage 
gateway. 

One   other   memory   of  early    Sundays 

I   keep   secure — the  days   when  fate  de 
creed 

We  children  stay  at  home.     But  solemn 
service 

Was    celebrated    still,    the    round-turned 
legs 


26  BACK  HOME 

Of   our    toy-table,    stately    candlesticks, 
Cigar  boxes  our  altar,  and  a  towel, 
(The  brighter-patterned  and  the  deeper 

fringed 

The  better)   for  our  vestment.     The  re 
turn 
From  Mass  we  watched  with  eager  wish 

and  wonder, 

Hoping  for  "goodies"  or,  far  better  still, 
Some  cousin's  visit.  If  the  cousin 

came — 

And  truly  then,  "the  more  the  merrier," 
What  escapades  we  had  in  that  red  cart, 
Disk-wheeled,  you  made  for  us!  And  O, 

the  wonder 
Of  watching  swallows  build  their  'dobe 

houses 
Under    the    barn    eves;    or    the    martens 

fly 
Out    from    the    bird-house,    and    dart    in 

again. 
And     there     were     straw-piles     for     the 

wildest  slides, 
Where  only  clouds  of  chaff  could  drown 

our    shrieks, 
Of     Indian-like     delight;     then     hay-loft 

plunges, 
When   from  the  dizzy  rafters   down  we 

leaped 
Upon  the  prickly  hay.  That  took  more 

daring 
Than    hunting    eggs,    or    chasing    little 

pigs— 


BACK  HOME  27 

Unless  a  sharp-beaked  setting  hen  defied 

us, 
Or  angry  sow  snapped  grunting  at  our 

heels. 

Out  in  the  apple  orchard,  O  what  finds 
Of     wind-fallen,     juicy-hearted,     golden 

crabs, 
Or  mealy  "winters"! 

Ah,   how  memory 

Revives  the  past;  the  world  takes  on 
the  hues 

Of  that  bright   portulaca  bed,   the   pride 

Of  all  the  women  folks.     O  happy  days! 

Sweet  days  of  wild  flowers,  plucked  when 
barefooted 

We  went  across  the  fields  with  dinner 
pails, 

Finding-  wild  roses  and  sweet-william 
by  the  furrow. 

O,  what  a  thorny  way  it  was  when  feet, 

All  flower-belated,  must  make  haste 
across 

The  cruel  stubble!  Roses  then  had 
thorns; — 

And  life  had  lessons,  tho'  we  knew  it 
not. 

The  day  returning  from  the  fields,  I  saw 

A  green  snake  dart  between  the  sun- 
scorched  stones 

Out  in  the  trodden  pasture,  lives  still 
vivid 

And  makes  the  sight  of  crawling  creat 
ures  still 


28  BACK  HOME 

So  sense-abhorrent  that  I  shudder  at  it. 
And   when,    pray,    will    I    ever   mount   a 

horse 
Without    recalling    that    dread    hour    of 

terror 
When  from  the  back  of  our  old  dapple, 

Fanny, 
Plodding  her  well-known  way  from  bars 

to  stable, 

I  fell,  amid  the  clatter  of  the  harness, 
Into  the  mud — and  fairly  died  of  fright? 
To-day  she  browses  in  Elysian  pastures. 
Curly,  the  dog,  whose  dumb  fidelity 
Made  change  of  masters,  death,  is  dead 

and  gone 
These   many    years,   and    even   his   silky 

coat 
That  made  a  cap  for  his  new  owners — 

(O, 
How    heartless    that    grim    fate    seemed 

then  to  me!), 

Has    served    its    time.      The    little    disk- 
wheeled  cart, 
Whose    red    was    faded    by   the    rain    to 

pink, 
Made  kindling,  with  the  little  bird-house 

sharing 
It's    axy    fate.      What    tragedies    those 

were! 

And   time   has   never   healed  their  poig 
nancy! 


BACK  HOME  29 

How   memory  beguiles  me,   on   and   on! 

The  moving  finger  writes,  the  Past  re 
lives 

In  passing  panorama.     So  it  is 

Thro'  all  my  waking  days  there  center 
'round 

The  thought  of  you,  these  pictures  of  the 
Past; 

Thirst  brings  me  bending  o'er  the  well 
again; 

Hot  city  pavements  lure  my  feet  in 
wishing 

Down  elm-green  lanes,  o'er  cool  dark 
kitchen  floors; 

And  tempting  pitchers   of  the  lemonade 

That  mother  mixed  so  magically,  tease 

My  reminiscent  taste  with  icy  tinkle 

And  beady  sweat.    O,  once  again  to  wear 

A  big  straw  hat,  with  dripping  rhubarb 
leaves 

Doused  with  the  well's  clear  brew, 
packed  in  its  crown! 

O,  happy  days  of  bird  and  brook  and 
rose-leaf! 

O  smiling  days  of  boyhood,  gone  for 
ever! 


LOST    LITTLE    BOY. 


O  little  boy,   how  pure  you  are,  how  fair! 

And  what  a  wonder  in  your  big  gray  eyes, 

Like    to    the    heavens,    when    sweet    suns 

surprise 

The   silver  rains!     I  see   you   laughing-   there 
Light-heart,   so  far  away!     No  cloud  of  care 

Has  crossed  the  sunny  April  of  your  skies. 

Ah,  how  the  world  has  changed!     My  sore 

heart  cries 
For  one   brief  little  day  your  joy   to   share! 

Lost  little  boy,  I  love  you  as  of  old, 
And  all  the  dear  companions  of  your  day; 

But,   ah,   how  futilely  for  you  I  sigh! 
Yet    in    the    night    my    world-worn    hands    I 

fold 
And  kneel  me  down  to  the  Great  Lord  to 

pray — 

For  all  that's  good  of  me,  sweet  boy,  is 
you,  so  fair,  so  high! 


PART  II 


Faces  and  places  are  soon  forgot 

In  the  pride  of  life's  endeavor, 
But  the  home  of  the  child,  be  it  palace  or  cot, 

Lives  on  in  the  mind  forever. 

— James  Riley. 


OW  evening  rested  quietly  and  still 
Upon  the  dewy  lawn!    The  moon 

came  up 

Over  the  eastern  groves,  and  silvered  all 
The  dreamy  world,  and  made  more  sil 
very  still 

The  music  of  sweet  horns  we  listened  to, 
Played  on   by  magic   breath   within   the 

grove. 
Clear    on   the   silence,   falling   when   the 

horns 
Ceased    their    far    cries    and    melody    of 

bugling, 
Broke   a   shrill  monotone   from  the   still 

pond, 
The   hymnal   of  the  frogs.     The   sylvan 

town 

Scarce   stirred  within  its   shadowy  shel 
ter.      Stars 
Beamed  steady  in   the  great  untroubled 

sky, 
The    while    the     clear    moon    rode    her 

wonted    course. 
And   now,   perhaps,   a  cool   wind,   rising 

up, 
Makes    mother    and    aunt    Minnie    draw 

their   aprons 
Over    their    shoulders.      "It    is    growing 

cool!" 
Still    silence    reigns.      Then    far    along 

the  night 
A    warning    engine    cry,    and    soon    the 

darkness 


36  BACK  HOME 

Is   pierced  and   cloven   with  a   meteor, 
The    quiet    shattered    by    the    rumbling 

noise 
Of  whirring  steel  across  the  shuddering 

bridge. 
Out  from  the  engine's  throat  the  smoke 

and    sparks 
Belch     forth,     lit     by     the     sudden     livid 

glow 
Of     fireman's     open     door — as     sudden 

closed; 
And    like    a    frightened    terror,    on    and 

on 
The   night    Express    speeds   on    its   way, 

soon   lost 

Behind     the     echoing    hills.      'Tis    bed 
time    now. 

The    days    grow    shorter    and    the    wind 

more    cool, 

Till  evenings  in  the  open  air  give  away 
To    fireside    hours.      The    frost    comes, 

and   the   snow, 
And    winter    rules    in    bitter   winds    that 

drift 
The    snow     against     the     window-panes, 

and  frost 
That  paints  the   glass  fantastic  with   its 

scrolls. 
When  with  warm  breath  we  blow  upon 

the    pane 
And    clear    away    the    feathery    congeal- 

ment 
To  peer  into  the  night,  behold  a  world 


BACK  HOME  37 

Brought  to  a  wondrous  pause  upon  its 
way 

All    still    beneath    the    mystic    witchery 

Of    winter!      Blue    and    pale    it   lies    en 
thralled, 

Dumbly   submissive   to  the  buffet-breath 

Of    polar    blasts,    yet    strangely    beauti 
ful 

In  all  its  utter  hush.     Turn  we  again 

Back  to  the  fire,  the  reading  lamp,  the 
books, 

Or  mayhap  to  the  puzzling  strategy 

Of  checker-board.  Dear  evening  hours 
at  home! 

Ah!  many  a  world-worn  heart  would 
give,  to-night, 

A   brilliant   barter   of   triumphant   nights 

For  one  brief  hour  of  your  good,  peace 
ful  quiet. 

The  checker-board  —  life  wrought  in 
miniature, 

With  wisdom's  slow  reward  made  ac 
tual 

In  king-rows — man's  resources — kept 
intact, 

And  folly's  giddy  way  brought  to  con 
fusion. 

The  victory  was  never  mine! — but  I 

Learned  more  than  checker  playing  at 
the  game. 

Study  there  was — and  books  always  al 
lured  me. 

("Only  this  page  to  finish,"  was  the  cry 


38  BACK  HOME 

At  bedtime  always).    So  now,  best  of  all, 

I  like  to  think  of  that  small  reading  cir 
cle 

Our  household  made,  when,  gathered  all 
together, 

We  laughed  at  Peter  Pepper's  wild  ad 
ventures 

In  Ireland — read  aloud.     But  over  all 

The  books,  and  better  even  than  my 
Shakespeare, 

Were  those  old  tales  you  told  of  Ireland, 
father! 

You  have  forgotten  them,  perchance, 
nor  mind  the  telling; 

But  not  so  I!  Those  stories  still  live 
on 

In  memory,  a  constant  source  of  pleas 
ure, 

And  all  the  wondrous  land  of  glens  and 
fairies 

Of  moonlit  abbey  ruins  and  of  bridges 

Built  by  the  "good  people" — Ballyhader- 
een, 

Loch  Gara,  with  its  fiddling  lads  aferry- 
ing 

The  lassies  over, — the  "Big  House," — 
the  rooks 

And  owls  that  made  the  abbey  tower 
dreadful 

With  ghostly  portent;  all,  all  this  re 
mains, 

The  land  I  mapped  all  clear  in  my 
young  mind's  eye 


BACK  HOME  39 

While  eager  ears  were  hearkening  to 
your  stories; 

"Pis  just  as  fresh  and  green  in  my  imag 
ining 

As  in  your  youthful  memory.     Nor  ever 

Can  heavy  winds  go  soaring  thro'  the 
night 

But  I,  almost  in  childish  terror,  live 

The  "Night  of  the  Big  Wind"  over 
again; 

I  hear  the  scream  and  booming  of  the 
tempest, 

The  rattle  of  the  flying  slate-roof  shin 
gles, 

The  roar  of  all  the  wild,  unearthly  tu 
mult 

That  sails  along  the  gale,  as  if  old  ocean 

Himself  in  anger,  came  to  sweep  your 
threshold. 

"An  awful  night  at  sea!"  I  hear  you  say. 

"Great  shipping  scattered  and  de 
stroyed."  All  Ireland 

Was  filled  with  fugitives  from  off  the 
sea, 

And  ballad  singers  were  abroad,  recount 
ing 

The  havoc  of  the  wind.  Now,  thro'  the 
black 

And  shivering  night,  I  see  the  men  out, 
tying 

The  oat  stacks  down,  and  fastening 
the  house  roofs 


40  BACK  HOME 

To    save   them.      Then   a   wilder,   fiercer 

crying 

Comes   on  the  wind's  voice,  and  a  sud 
den  crash! 
And  tumbling  from  the  chimney  falls  a 

stone! 
It  struck  "Aunt  Peggy"  on  the  head:— 

see!     I    remember! 
Do  you  remember  this?     A  little  lad, 
Sudden    awakening    in    the    night-stilled 

house 

And  finding  himself  utterly  alone. 
Out,  terrified,  he  leaped,  and  sped  away 
Across    the    fields,    white,    naked,    like    a 

fairy, 
And    frightening    all    the    rabbits    in    the 

furze, 

Crying  his  grief  and  terror  to  the  winds 
Till  loving  arms — the  arms  he  sought— 

secured  him! 

Now,  far  at  sea,  a  sailing  ship  appears, 
With  precious  freight — one  of  those  ar 
gosies 

Of  hope  and  sorrow,  bitterness  and  joy, 
Poor  stricken  Ireland  set  upon  the  sea 
To    find    their   way   to    "rainbow's    end!" 

The  storms 
Lash  the  loud  sea  to  yawning  rage;  the 

wind 
Blows  every  way  but  journey's  way;  the 

stars 

And  all   the   heavens  are  blotted  out  in 
darkness. 


BACK  HOME  41 

Sick  and  despairing  grow  the  once  brave 

exiles,        '  j 
So  pitiless  the  power  of  Heaven  seems 

turning 
Against    their    every    hope    and    prayer. 

Yet  one, 

A  young  lad,  busy  with  his  tools  of  trade 
When   need   finds   use   for   them,   makes 

hearts  look  up 
And   smile   and  take   new  courage  from 

the  lesson 
Youth  teaches.     Friends  he  makes,  and 

cheer    he    brings 

Wherever  his  light    steady  step  and  eyes 
Of    smiling    candor    go.      The    same    lad 

grows 
In    strength    and    sinew    (honoring    the 

calling 

Of    Nazareth's    good    Saint),    till    man 
hood's  years 
Are  won.     The  days  speed  on;  the  New 

West  calls 

And  so  the  far  Wisconsin  prairie  wins 
The  best  of  Canada.     O  men  and  women 
Who  braved  the  frontier,  never  counting 

cost 

Of  ease  and  comforts  given  for  the  ma 
king 
Of    hearts     and     homes!       O     pioneers! 

What  poem 
Can   tell  your   worth!     What   song  can 

sing  the  courage 
Of  tender  women,  out  upon  the  prairie! 


42  BACK  HOME 

Armies  win  martial  glory,  statesmen  live 
In    stirring    words    on    history's    bright 

pages, 
But  Fame's  far  splendor,  nor  the  soldier's 

glory 

Can  ever  measure  all  the  honor  due 
The  pioneer — the  quiet  men  and  women 
Who   made   the    new   land   home!      You 

were  the  builders! 
Church,  spire,  and  many  a  roof  attest  it! 

Yet 
In    our    old    home   are    prizes    far    more 

precious 
That  tell  one's   skill  in  Joseph's  goodly 

trade, 

And  speak  the  magic  of  a  mother's  pres 
ence. 
No  need  to  tell — your  father  was  before 

you 

A  carpenter  and  cabinet-maker,  deft 
In  all  the  arts  of  his  important  trade 
That  made  the  builder,  in  his  day,  the 

carver 
Of  bed  as   well   as   beam,   of   chair  and 

table 
As  well  as  roof  and  floor.     Nor  need  to 

say 
The    gentle    art    of    making    home    was 

learned, 

The  nimble  ringer  trained  in  needles'  art, 
Dear    mother,    long    before    the    prairie 

won  you. 


BACK  HOME  43 

For   there    the   little   farm-house    in    the 

trees 

Stood  as  a  landmark  for  all  travelers — 
"The  house  that  has  the  curtains";  and 

the  guest 
Found    a    sweet     gentlewoman's    magic 

spell 
Making  "a  garden  in  the  wilderness." 

St.    Patrick's    day    again!      The    winter, 

passing, 

Gives  glimpses  of  the  green  beneath,  as  if 
A  pledge  that   Ireland's  shamrocks  still 

are  growing. 
Come,  then,  pin  on  your  green,  and  let 

us  go 

Out  to  the  "Corners"  for  the  celebration. 
Rich  oratory  rings  along  the  rafters, 
And    from    the    organ-loft    the    stirring 

notes 
Of    "Patrick's    Day,"    "The    Wearing    of 

the  Green," 
"Faith  of  Our  Fathers" — and  then,  "God 

Save  Ireland" 
Sweep  thro'  our   Irish  hearts!     And  lo, 

once  more 
The  best  thoughts  of  the  past  return,  the 

years 
Long  fled,  renew,  the  world  grows  young 


44  BACK  HOME 

Then  "God  Save  Ireland"  say  we  all  of 
us, 

And  God  save  you  and  bless  you  boun 
tifully! 

St.  Patrick's  rarest  blessings  all  be  yours. 

O  may  the  sorrows  of  your  heart  be  few, 

And  always  like  the  sorrows  of  old  Ire 
land, 

With  Hope's  bright  rainbow  ever  shin 
ing  thro', 

And  may  your  joys  and  blessing  be  as 
many 

And  all  as  beautiful  as  all  the  sham 
rocks 

In  all  of  Ireland,  with  the  dew  upon 
them! 

St.  Patrick's  day  again,  God  bless  us; 
surely 

This  is  the  night  then  for  potato  cake — 

Potato  Cake!     Ah,  surely,  one  forgets 

The  sharp  points  of  this  life  when 
creamy  patties, 

Swimming  in  golden  butter,  piping  hot, 

Melt  in  one's  mouth.  Potato  cake! 
There's  not 

In  all  of  Ireland,  nor  the  whole  world 
over 

One  who  can  make  potato  cake  like  you, 

Mother, — no  Irish  blarney  this,  I  tell  you! 

Only  a  little  of  the  dear  old  story 
Have  I  reviewed.    Thoughts  throng  with 
memory, 


BACK  HOME  45 

Words  rush  to  picture  all  the  past,  and 

heart 
Warms  and  beats  higher  in  remembering. 

Now  comes  the  blessed  Christmas  time 

again, 
The  time  when  all  hearts  hark  them  back 

to  home, 
When    families    gather — if    God    be    so 

kind — 
And    sons    and    daughters,    parents    and 

their  children, 
Assemble  'round  the  board.     I  count  the 

days 

Till  I  may  be  beneath  the  old  home  roof 
With  you  once  more,  making  the  present 

time 
Better  than  best  of  "olden  times."     God 

grant 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas — and  our  New 

Year,  too, 

As  now  we  plan,  together,  happy,  glad 
Of  blessings  many,  and  so  light  of  heart 
That  "Merry  Christmas"  is  the  only  word 
Can  tell  our  story.  Until  then,  "Good 
night" 

I  call  across  the  country,  knowing  well 
That   all   my  thoughts,   wherever    I  may 

roam, 
Will  be  for  you,  the  dear  old  folks  back 

home. 


A    VOICE    IN    THE    CITY. 


Draw   the   veil   closer,    closer!   I   would   fain, 
Forever   in    the   vision   land   remain! 
There  is  a  shielding  sense  of  peace  I  crave, 
Of    shelter    from    the    bruising    world.      The 

grave 

Alone,  perhaps,  can  truly  give  it  me; 
For  then  my  spirit,  freed,  may  range  the  sea 
And,    love-attended   by  unfettered  dreams, 
Know  the   sweet  Truth   beyond  May-be  and 

Seems. 

Draw  the  veil  closer!  Take  me  quickly  now 
O  pilot  on  the  dream-ship's  starlit  prow! 
Save  me,  I  cry!     The  iron  is  entering  in, 
And  soon  my  soul  will  only  hear  the  din 
Of  black  machinery.     For  all  too  soon 
My  life-pulse  throbs  to  this  discordant  tune, 
Beating  so  tirelessly,  my  dulling  sense 
Will  yet  mark  music  in  its  clashing  tense, 
And,  deafened  to  the  song  of  star  and  flower, 
Bend  and   be   broken   in   its  crushing  power. 
Draw  the  veil  closer!    Save  me  from  the  day 
That  dreadfully  impends,   when,  far  away, 
The  waves  of  my  dear  sea  in  vain  will  weave 
The  song  I  love  so  well.     O  let  me  leave 
This  alien   place  before   I   utterly  die! 
For  even  now  my  soul  makes  feeble  cry! 


[Written  for  the  eightieth  birthday  of  my 
father,  Patrick  Phillips,  March  17,  1908. 
First  published  for  private  circulation,  De 
cember,  1908;  reprinted  August,  1911;  third 
edition,  November,  1911.] 


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